Blind Justice

23

BEN’S OFFICE WAS IN chaos. Even more so than usual.

Outside, representatives of the Creek Nation were protest marching, insisting that the McCall case be referred to tribal courts. A large placard read: WHITE MAN’S LAW—WHITE MAN’S JUSTICE.

The protest was senseless; tribal courts don’t have felony jurisdiction. Besides, didn’t they know he tried to get the case out of federal court? Why protest here? Because they weren’t allowed in the courtroom, Ben supposed, and besides, this was where the reporters were.

Inside, the front lobby of Ben’s office was brimming with journalists of every variety. The blue beam of minicams crisscrossed the room. Reporters were huddled around Jones’s table, trying to read the paper in his typewriter.

They spotted Ben before he had a chance to sneak into his private office. A tall, anorexic-looking female he thought he recognized from the Channel 8 news pressed herself in front of him.

“Mr. Kincaid!” the woman shouted, although she was less than a foot away. “Can you give us a statement?”

“No.” He tried unsuccessfully to pass her.

“Can we take your reluctance to speak as an admission that you haven’t got much of a case?” Her microphone was tickling his nose.

“No, you may not. Our case is rock-solid. The Rules of Professional Conduct prohibit me from making substantive comments regarding pending criminal actions.”

“U.S. Attorney Moltke didn’t have any problem talking to us.”

“No comment.”

Another reporter; a tall man with wavy, blond hair, accosted Ben from the other direction.

“Is it true that a radical minority sect of the Creek Nation tribe is protesting your representation and requesting immediate custody of the murderess?”

“Christina McCall is not a murderess! She’s innocent until proven guilty.”

“Can you tell us what, if any, evidence you have uncovered to rebut the prosecutor’s seemingly airtight case?”

Ben clenched his teeth. “No.”

“Mr. Kincaid, with the scheduled trial date close at hand, the evidence against Christina McCall appears to be overwhelming—”

Ben grabbed the microphone and shoved it back in the man’s face. He grabbed the reporter by the lapels of his double-breasted jacket. “Don’t you have any sense of decency, you acerebral twit?”

The minicam operators scrambled, butting heads for the best angle.

“Don’t you realize what you’re doing?” Ben continued. “You’re tainting the jury pool!”

“Can you explain that?” someone shouted.

“Those aren’t just Neilson ratings sitting out there in television land. Those are prospective jurors! And if you tell your viewers the evidence against Christina McCall is overwhelming, most of them will believe you!”

Ben shoved the blond man away with disgust but found he had nowhere to go. The reporters pressed even closer. The bright white lights were everywhere, disorienting him. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, his face, under his collar. He was trapped. And the cameras were rolling.

Suddenly a new voice emerged from the crowd. “Yo! Armed robbery at the pawn shop next door. They’ve got automatic weapons!”

As one body, the reporters scrambled toward the front door. After an unseemly scuffle, they managed to plunge through the narrow opening—leaving Jones standing just outside.

He smiled. “Hiya, Boss. Giving an interview?”

“Not very well,” Ben replied. “I don’t suppose there really is a robbery at the pawn shop.”

“Nope,” Jones said, locking the door behind him. “But wouldn’t you like to see the look on Burris’s face when he sees twenty or so reporters bashing their way into his shop? He’s gonna think he’s on Sixty Minutes.”

Ben pictured the tableau next door. He would like to see it, at that.

“You got off easy,” Jones continued. “I’ve been dealing with those news fiends all week. What vultures.”

“They’re not vultures. They’re just doing their job.”

“Easy for you to say. You haven’t been around them, day in, day out, in addition to the hostile Native American protesters. It’s making this place a pressure cooker. I feel like someone’s watching every move I make.”

“You and me both.” Ben sighed. “We have the regrettable pleasure of being Tulsa’s current headline news.”

“Actually, we’re the top story throughout the state,” Jones said. He showed Ben the headline on the day’s Daily Oklahoman. The bold black letters covered nearly half the front page: DRUG PRINCESS TRIAL NEARS.

“That’s just great,” Ben groaned.

“The shooting death of a linchpin in the Cali cartel—that’s big news. The Texas papers are starting to pick up the story, too.”

“Much as I’ve needed publicity, this wasn’t what I had in mind. Pray for a natural disaster to divert everyone’s attention. Or maybe a small war. By the way, heard anything from Mike?”

“No. He’s dodging me. I keep calling, but he won’t take my calls and he doesn’t call back.”

Ben shook his head. He couldn’t believe Mike was avoiding him, that he was so determined to toe the line he’d let Christina fall through the cracks. Permanently.

“Keep trying,” Ben said quietly. “Anything else we need to catch up on?”

“Yeah. How ’bout I run over and check out the crime scene?”

“How ’bout you stay here and man the telephone?”

“Boss, I want to do some legwork.”

“I’ve been to the crime scene already. Trust me—it wasn’t that enlightening.”

“Easy for you to say. You get all the fun assignments. I have to stay here all day fending off creditors and drunks and reporters.”

“Life is tough.”

“Aw, c’mon, let me go. I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“I can. How can I prove myself to you?”

Ben glanced down at the floor, where he saw two chickens, each pecking a shoe. “Well,” he said, “for starters…”